


Stiles and the Mysterious Magic Book

by sunryder



Series: Cardcaptor Stiles [1]
Category: Cardcaptor Sakura, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Magic, BAMF Stiles, Cardcaptor Stiles, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Will update tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-16 20:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3501077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunryder/pseuds/sunryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When questioned later, Stiles would say something about how the book had made him grab it. But as much as something had pulled Stiles in to this mess, he knew in his gut that to touch or not touch the book would be his own decision. The impulse, or magic, or whatever in the hell was going on here, couldn’t force Stiles to choose. If it did, then the contract he struck by opening the book wouldn’t be binding. And really, that Stiles was absolutely sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that something in that book was talking to him really should’ve made him walk the hell away. </p><p>So of course, with all of that in mind, Stiles reached out and snatched the book right off the shelf. </p><p>A Teen Wolf/Cardcaptor Sakura Fusion</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dr. Deaton was not one of Stiles’ biggest fans. Which, lets be honest, Stiles was pretty used to. The general rule was that practically any adult who had a vested interested in the wellbeing of sweet, gentle Scott McCall liked to express their concerns about Stiles. 

Sure, Stiles could’ve said that he was offended by their displeasure, but that would be a lie. Over the years various schoolteachers, PTA members, and assorted concerned citizens had given Melissa a speech about her “darling Scott spending time with that naughty Stilinski boy”. Usually those speeches came after the spectacular failure of one of Stiles’ plans, so he couldn’t really blame them for seeing him as a bad influence. Dr. Deaton flinching every time Stiles came in to the vet’s office to pick up Scott was just par for the course. Though, the vet giving him the side eye every time Stiles went to step past the counter did irk him more than it should have. 

Stiles knew damn well what kind of person he was, and right about the time his mother stopped breathing Stiles stopped giving a shit what the people in Beacon Hills thought about him. He had his Dad, and his Scott, and they were the only ones who mattered.

Alright, that might not have been entirely true.

Stiles might, a little bit, enjoy rubbing the gossips’ noses in the shit they said. There wasn’t much in the world that could make Stiles laugh quite like watching one of his Dad’s deputies shut down them down with praise for the latest case that Stiles and his obsessive researching had helped them solve. Of course, Deaton would never be stupid enough to trash talk the Sheriff’s kid in front of his deputies, so Stiles never got the satisfaction of seeing the vet smacked down. If Stiles had a little less longing to thumb his nose at Deaton and the people like him, he might have thought for more than two seconds before he broke in to Deaton’s office. 

Although, the B&E probably wouldn’t have turned out to be a problem if Stiles hadn’t had the luck of, well… Stiles. 

But a Stiles is as a Stiles does, and a Stiles has the common sense to know that based off the outside dimensions of the clinic, Deaton’s office should’ve been bigger than it was. Not by a lot, but a few missing feet were odd. 

A few missing feet behind the secret door in Deaton’s office were interesting. 

But a secret door that you couldn’t find unless you triggered a secret switch to move Deaton’s bookcase was fascinating. 

Deaton had been called out to deal with a dog-related emergency, and Stiles was supposed to stay in the waiting room while Scott closed up the practice. Literally. Deaton had a rule that under no circumstances was Stiles allowed in the clinic proper when Deaton was not on the premises. (“What if I hear Scott screaming that he’s being attacked by a rabid dog? Do you really want your favorite assistant to get eaten alive?” Deaton had paused in the way adults always did when they were mentally counting to ten. “If you hear Scott being mauled, if you hear Scott screaming for you, if you hear the TARDIS appearing or a wormhole opening to a different galaxy, you are still not allowed past the front counter when I’m not here.”) Stiles really had meant to follow the rule, and really hadn’t meant to exploit the opportunity to snoop through Deaton’s office. 

…alright, that was a lie too. 

He had meant to snoop, but he hadn’t mean to find anything. Stiles thought that maybe there would be a wrapper in the trash that would tell him the right kind of candy to pull out when he needed to bribe Deaton the next time Scott was late to work. When he found the garbage can and desk obsessively clean, Stiles turned to the shelves behind Deaton’s desk. He’d been poking around for a little something that he might be able to read later and use to give Scott some talking points. He’d been prodding a battered leather volume that declared itself the Essential Guide to Werewolves (and really, best gag gift for a Vet ever. Stiles was totally finding one for Scott the second he had his own office) when Stiles’ hand… slipped. 

Really. 

No shit. 

And not like he sometimes ‘slipped’ in the gym showers to get a better view of Danny’s ass. It was like his hand jumped of its own free will and just smacked in to the top of a little statue of the sun and moon overlaid with one another—intensely less cool than the Werewolf book, btw. He’d expected the statue to tip over in a condemning clatter, but it didn’t so much clatter as it snapped down to the wood. It was when the statue slowly rose like a vampire from its coffin that the bookcase started to slip open on silent hinges. 

Stiles would’ve liked to be the kind of guy who thought about the pros and cons before he stepped in to Deaton’s secret library—okay, that was another lie. He would’ve like to be the kind of guy, who would’ve liked to be the one who stopped and thought before sneaking in to an obviously secret room, but he wasn’t, and Stiles’ curiosity was actually one of his favorite things about himself. And really, the two seconds Stiles would’ve spent wondering if sneaking was the right thing to do, he instead got to spend realizing that the secret room was bigger on the inside. (And really, the whole thing was worth it just because Stiles got to think that phrase with no trace of irony.) 

Deaton’s secret space wasn’t full of skimmed narcotics, or partially-disemboweled pets that had snapped at him one too many times; it was books. Shelves and shelves of books that took up more empty space than the physical dimensions of the building said should have been there. The room wasn’t a massive addition, but still, six feet when there should only be three was nothing to sneeze at. The first few shelves were full of the standard veterinary textbooks and treatises on the lesser-known animals that Deaton might come across living so close to a forest. But then things got… weird. 

It turned out the Werewolf book on the shelf outside was actually the original, antique edition of what had been republished as a shelf-long series of volumes 1 through 17 that was now staring Stiles in the face. 

(Below the Werewolves were two separate shelves on Witches, while the row above had a few books on Warlocks, and Stiles really hadn’t thought witches and warlocks were different enough to need their own books. Though, based on the small section on Wizards down at the bottom of the bookcase, he had read the wrong Wikipedia pages about this kind of thing.) 

Stiles intended to backtrack to the C’s and see if he could find some kind of complete compendium of creatures (though he was totally going to stop along the way and check for Magical Beasts and Where to Find Them). He wouldn’t get away with stealing an index, but he could totally get some pictures of covers and titles to start his research before Scott realized he wasn’t out in the clinic’s waiting room like he was supposed to be. But, like his hand had done to get them in here, Stiles’ feet seemed to have their own idea about what they were supposed to be doing. He tried to dig in his heels, but worn in sneakers weren’t really the best defense against whatever it was that was pulling his body along like it didn’t really belong to him anymore. 

“Oh, this is bad. This is bad, bad, bad.” Stiles could see it now: there was some kind of magical trap that sucked intruders over to the deepest, darkest part of the secret library where some twisted version of a Disney character swallowed him whole. Deaton would probably haul his body out into the woods and have one of his Werewolf friends fake an animal attack. Then Stiles’ poor dad would bring him back from the dead just to kill him again for letting his curiosity get him killed, and then his dad would drink himself to death while Stiles got reincarnated as a cat in punishment. 

Stiles was beginning to suspect that he was actually the worst son ever. 

Though, he didn’t really have a lot of time to ponder that possibility since whatever was pulling him to his death stopped before he actually got eaten. Instead of death by unknown creature, the force brought him to a shelf that looked no different from any of the others… other than the thick, silver spine of a book that couldn’t have been more obvious about wanting Stiles to pick it up if it tried. 

Seriously, it might as well have been glowing. 

When questioned later, Stiles would say something about how the book had made him grab it like everything else that had pulled him in. But as much as something had pulled Stiles in to this mess, he knew in his gut that to touch or not touch the book would be his own decision. Whatever had pulled him in could lead Stiles to water, but it couldn’t make him drink. The impulse, or magic, or whatever in the hell was going on here, didn’t want and couldn’t force Stiles to choose. If it did, then the contract he struck by opening the book wouldn’t be binding. And really, that Stiles was absolutely sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that something in that book was talking to him really should’ve made him walk the hell away. Made him turn around and sneak back out before Scott caught him snooping. Or worse, Deaton came back.

So of course, with all of that in mind, Stiles reached out and snatched the book right off the shelf. 

And then… well, then shit went down. 

Years of watching Stargate had taught Stiles that glowing things were bad. But knowing that fundamental principle found in every science-fiction universe had not prepared him to see a regular ink and paper book erupt in his hands. The moment the book’s corners cleared the shelves it reared back and wrenched itself free of Stiles’ grip, slamming down to the ground. 

It flopped like a land-bound fish, gathering up its glow just to the seal that adorned the book’s cover. And then, it stopped. Just flickered out like whatever had been driving it had just dried up. Stiles sank down to his heels and reached out to poke at the book to make it was safe to touch… and the book chose that moment to erupt. 

Literally. 

The pent up light exploded, and Stiles flinched back from the bright rush in the dark room. The searing light roared up in a whirlwind, ripping through each and every last page of the book as the images found there tore up into the sky and through the ceiling. Stiles dove forward, trying to get his hands on something before he ended up even higher on Deaton’s kill list. Stiles snatched up the last of the pictures and it solidified in his hand as the light cut out, leaving behind it an unnatural stillness. After all that tugging and all the yelling that was no doubt going to happen, and all Stiles ended up with was a fragment of a book page that looked like the strangest tarot card he’d ever seen. (He’d done his tarot 101 for a paper he was supposed to write on Greco-Roman history. It wasn’t the biggest stretch he’d ever had for one of his assignments.) 

The card was pale purple and silver, with the same seal imprinted on its back as on the book’s cover. The card’s front was taken up by the image of a girl with hair whipping around her face and what Stiles was pretty sure were moth wings. Which he supposed made sense since the card was labeled, “The Wind.” Stiles nearly broke the strange quiet with the obligatory fart joke that the name required, but instead the book’s cover snapped shut. And shit, it started to glow again. 

Stiles stumbled back to put some distance between him and whatever in the hell was about to come flying out this time, but it seemed space was unnecessary. The light coalesced at the symbol, but this time it bulged and stretched. Stiles thought he could pick out the roll of a shoulder and the push of a foot, and despite being surrounded by a whole room full of books that should’ve told him that running was the best idea ever, Stiles crouched down and shuffled forward trying to get a better view. Because really, he was pretty sure the book wasn’t actually going to kill him, and if it wasn’t this was way too good to pass up. 

The distending glow finally dulled, and the final shape perched on top of the book’s cover was a small, fluffy… cat. The little thing looked up at Stiles with wide eyes, and before Stiles could think better of it said, “Don’t be offended, but I was hoping for a dragon.” 

The ball of fluff cocked its head to the side and narrowed those sweet eyes to something judging. “And I was hoping not to be illicitly summoned by a child who obviously shouldn’t be anywhere near me. We all have our disappointments.”

“Summoning? There was no summoning.”

“Did you or did you not open the Argent Codex?”

“Hey man, the book opened itself!” 

If it was at all possible for a cat to look at him like he was an idiot, the one currently staring him down would’ve achieved it. “It. Opened. Itself.” If Stiles’ was a lesser teen, the disbelief in the cat’s tone wouldn’t peeled the flesh off his bones.

“Yes! I was outside minding my own business—” and really, a person who’d never met Stiles before shouldn’t be looking at him like that. “I was! The book pulled me in to the room and told me to take it off the shelf, and then it just went crazy! Wind came out of nowhere and the pages spat all over the place, and then you came out of a freaking book!” Stiles may or may not have been freaking out. But since he’d just found out that Werewovles and magic and talking cats were real, he thought he was totally justified in the oncoming panic attack. 

Before Stiles could get swallowed up in the onslaught, the cat slinked off the book and hopped onto Stiles’ lap to rub along his chest. Stiles’ fingers automatically sought out the comfort of soft, ginger fur. Stiles absolutely did not pet the snarky cat that seemed to innately assume that Stiles was full of shit, but his fingers may or may not have rubbed across the fur, just a little. “What are you?” Stiles asked when he got his breathing back under control. 

The cat actually had to pause before it answered, which was not at all comforting. “Let’s go with Phil.” 

“Phil. You’re a cat named Phil?”

“No. I’m a magical creature currently stuck in the form of a cat because the talismans that I’m sworn to protect have made the insane choice to scatter rather than wait to be claimed like they were supposed to, and thus I cannot drawn sufficient magical energy to assume my real form. But Phil seems like an easier explanation.”

“The uh, the ‘magical talismans’ having a will of their own seems like a pretty big oversight on someone’s part.” 

“The more powerful a magical item gets, the more that buildup of magic imbues it with a personality. I don’t think the card’s creator ever entertained the possibility that the cards would use their portion of personality to do something like this.” 

“Run away?”

Phil slumped down to a forlorn lump on Stiles’ thighs. “I suppose that’s as accurate a summary as anything.”

Stiles would’ve asked Phil what the more accurate phrase would’ve been, but Scott’s voice echoed, “Stiles?” through the building. He wasn’t yet outside the wide open door to Deaton’s office, but close. And sweet Scott cared about following Deaton’s rules. 

“Shit,” Stiles cursed. He scooped Phil up and dropped him and the stupid book into his backpack with—judging from the hiss—a bit more force than he should have. “Cats don’t usually run around talking, so just, just don’t say anything until I let you out, alright?”

“Stiles?” Scott called again, closer this time.

Phil rolled his golden eyes, and Stiles chose to take that as an agreement before he zipped up the bag and darted out of the secret library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Phil is totally voiced by Clark Gregg.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles didn’t so much deliberately  _keep_  things from Scott as he liked to wait until his plan was too far along for Scott to talk him out of it. In this particular case, Stiles had his hands full with trying to figure out if he’d lost his mind and was hallucinating a talking cat. Getting a second opinion about the hallucinating would probably be a great idea, but if he wasn’t actually going crazy, Stiles still hadn’t figured out how to explain where the talking cat had come from. Sure, he could admit to breaking into Deaton’s secret magical storeroom—which he knew he’d have to do eventually—but Stiles would much rather have some facts about magic to distract Scott from the rule violating.

 

So Stiles bailed on their afternoon of playing video games so he could indulge in a pretend stroke of brilliance for the essay he had due for Finstock. A lifetime of Stiles had taught Scott that inspiration was not to be denied. To Stiles’ relief, Scott didn’t offer to stick around and play quietly while Stiles went on his research binge. He must’ve seen the half-crazy look that Stiles got when an idea was gnawing at him, and like the brother from another mother that he was, Scott just gave Stiles a smile and told him to call if he felt like coming up for air.

 

Thankfully his dad was on duty, which meant Stiles had the whole night to try and understand what in the hell was going on. He careened up to his room—pausing just long enough to fill a bowl with water that he ended up sloshing all over the stairs. When Stiles peeled back the backpack’s zipper and Phil glowered up at him with his little paws pressed against the stack of books like he’d been trying to keep them from squishing him. Phil wriggled out of the bag, grumbling, “400 years I’ve been alive and I have never been treated like this in my life.”

 

Stiles rolled his eyes and nudged the drink offering in Phil’s direction. “It’s not like I could just walk out of there with a talking cat.”

 

“It’s not like I had to talk in front of anyone else,” Phil hissed.

 

“It was the vet’s office! You don’t leave the vet’s office with a cat that’s not yours without extensive paperwork. Which would’ve meant Deaton. And since we were in his hidden library, I’m pretty sure he would want to know where in the hell you came from.”

 

“You honestly believe Deaton is not going to notice that the Argent Codex has gone missing?” Phil scoffed. Though whether he was more offended at the idea or at being treated like a pet, Stiles didn’t know. “Alan Deaton is my human equivalent, meant to guard the codex until such time as it is ready to be passed on to the next sorcerer that the magic deems worthy. He’ll know the second he steps inside the building that the magic has shifted and the book is gone.”

 

“Well then maybe you two should’ve done a better job about telling the book not to lure in unsuspecting teenagers!”

 

“I did my job, and Alan did his. But there was no way we could have anticipated that the cards would reach the point where they decided to summon someone outside of the bloodline. The cards called to you. I don’t know if they did it because you’re the first person who didn’t have the sense to ignore the book and not to touch it, or if they believe you should be the cardcarrier.”

 

“Cards?”

 

Phil flipped open the book’s cover and nudged out the Wind card that Stiles had managed to catch before it scattered with the others. “The Argent cards.”

 

“Argent cards?” Stiles brushed his fingers along the card’s face, but pulled away when he felt a breeze brushing back.

 

“The are magical talismans that were created over 400 years ago by a sorcerer named Edmond Argent. He and his whole family line for the generations preceding him and all the generations since have been devoted monster hunters. He created the cards to capture spirits of wild magic in such a form that his family line would be able to call on their strength and power to aid them in their sworn duty to protect humanity from the terrible creatures that live among them. He wanted to make sure that the Argents might always have the power to hunt those who hunt humans.”

 

The card in question was a bit narrower and longer than Stiles’ hand. The paper was thick like a playing card, though Stiles got the feeling that if he practiced his shuffling technique with it, the card would find a way to punish him. The back of the card was marked by an aggressively pointed silver starburst, while the front had a personification of wind who looked… French. (Stiles had skipped over the Art History AP, and he was kind of regretting that in this moment.) The figure’s delicate wings were tucked tight to her body and her hair flared around her face like the image had been captured in the moment before she dove. It wasn’t really Stiles’ style—though Melissa had told him several times that comic books didn’t count as a preferred style—but he could still appreciate the simple lines. (And yes, he had written a paper about comic books as an artistic medium and left it in Melissa’s car. She’d smiled and made him cookies, though she’d still refused to join him and Scott for comic book reading time.)

 

 “So you’re telling me that these cards, they’re magic? And the person who uses them is supposed to belong to this Argent family, and they’re suppose to use them to hunt magical creatures?”

 

“In its simplest terms, yes.”

 

“And what would the complicated terms be?”

 

Phil gave him that long sort of stare that Stiles’ dad gave him before he decided to actually tell him about the case he was working on. “At some point in their adolescence, every Argent child is brought to the Codex to determine if their personal magic is in alignment with the cards. Those that are, are allowed to take the Codex and train with the cards until such a time as their magic is no longer in alignment.”

 

“You mean when they die.”

 

“That is the best case scenario. As we grow and change as people, so too does our magic. There have been cardcarriers whose magic simply grew in a different direction that the purpose the cards were created for, becoming healers instead of hunters. However, more often than not the cardcarriers will engage in some behavior that the cards find unacceptable, and the cards refuse to work with them anymore.”

 

“What, how is that  _usually_  what happens?”

 

“As the old saying goes: absolute power corrupts absolutely. The cards are bound to a family line whose goal is to make war on the creatures of the night, and the cards’ magic aligns best with those who are most dedicated to this cause. The cards provide the power to protect, but many a carrier has attempted to use that power to purge. Historically, the carriers who are magically weaker have carried the cards until their deaths, while those who should have been able to move mountains have let themselves become twisted by the power until the cards refused to function.”

 

“What did they do?”

 

Phil growled, and despite the cat vocal chords actually making the noise, some animal part of Stiles’ brain recognized there was power hidden in that little, fluffy frame. “For example, one sought to use the Illusion card to trick a noble into believing he was the man’s dead son so that he could inherit the family’s wealth and funnel it towards the hunting cause. Another tried to use the Rut card to compel a man who had refused her into bed. The last carrier the cards had attempted to use the Fire card to burn a family of Werewolves while they slept in their beds. It is an unstoppable, unquenchable fire that no amount of Werewolf healing or protective wards would be able to endure. Their very flesh would have melted and their bones turned to ash to drift away on the breeze. There were children in that house.” Phil trailed off in quiet horror.

 

“They stopped them though, right? The cards didn’t let anybody get raped or murdered with their power?”

 

“No. The cards let their carrier walk straight to the precipice, giving them until the last possible moment to rethink their decision. But they never did. When the last tried to start the fire, the cards let her get so far as to summon the fire spirit, but when she tried to send him to the house, he just stood there, staring at her. She screamed at him to burn the house down, and instead he encircled her with his flames and waited for the family to awaken.”

 

Stiles gave the Wind card a pat for it and its friends refusing to have anything to do with that shit. “What happened when the family did?”

 

“That, I do not know. Deaton had to tell me what he’d been told about the fire, I never heard it from the cards. They’ve been… reticent to discuss things with me since the arson attempt. I should have known they were planning something.”

 

“Dude, you’ve already told me four times that there was no way you could’ve guessed that the cards would develop enough personality to defy their programming. Especially since their prime directive is supposed to be attaching themselves to a powerful magic user who fights against things that go bump in the night, and instead they picked non-magical, uniformed  _me_  as their way of breaking out.”

 

That seemed to startle Phil out of his funk. “You’re magical.”

 

“Am not. I’d never heard of any of this shit before you turned up.”

 

Phil rolled his eyes. “Everyone has magic, Stiles. The very fact that we live and breathe is magic. The kind of magic we possess just tends to present itself in different ways depending upon the person. Deaton’s skill with animals is a form of magic, just not in the traditional sense. Your own curiosity is magical. Dangerous, but magical.”

 

Stiles refused to blush at anything about him being called magical. “So what you’re telling me is that Argent kids are supposed to touch your book and if the cards like them, then they get to be Van Helsing. Only sometimes being the chosen one turns them into Darth Vader, and now the cards are sick of doing that again and again so they’re on the run.”

 

 Stiles was used to people staring at him like they had no idea what he was talking about, though he had to admit, the expression was kind of weird to see on a cat. Stiles flipped open the codex and found the interior hollowed out with a space for the scattered cards like people did for guns in mobster movies. The edges of the empty pages had what Stiles was pretty sure were brief descriptions of the cards, but since the words were in French, and the cards the words were talking about were no longer attached to the pages they were supposed to inhabit, it wasn’t a whole lot of help. “I feel like there has to be a better way to do this.”

 

“Under normal circumstances I would say that it’s been working just fine for 400 years, but my current situation would belie that statement.”

 

“So what are you normally?”

 

Phil took a delicate lick from the water bowl Stiles had brought and puckered his nose like it had done something to offend him. Stiles did not replace the water because that’s what Phil got for ignoring Stiles’ peace offering for so long. “I am the same as I always was.”

 

“You said you’re stuck as a cat because of the cards went rogue, meaning you’re not usually a cat.”

 

“When one knows oneself, one’s physical form becomes unimportant.”

 

“Are you having a Yoda moment? Size matters not?”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“Seriously? You haven’t seen Star Wars?”

 

“The cardcarriers usually only call on me when they are in a magically secured space to help them with their training, or I am called upon to provide the cards’ testimony about why they have chosen to cease working with a carrier. The last time my presence was required for more than a few hours at a time was at the turn of the last century.”

 

“So, a decade ago.”

 

Turns out cats were fully capable of rolling their eyes. “The century before that.”

 

“Do they really just keep you trapped in a book the rest of the time? Because if they do we need to watch Aladdin so you’ll get all of my Genie references. Don’t you get bored in there? Or like, are there books in the book to keep you entertained? Is it like the inside of a pokeball, ‘cause I’ve always wondered what pokemon where supposed to do in there all the time. And what happened that they actually let you out for more time? Was it dangerous? Are you dangerous?”

 

“Are you hopped up on adrenaline, or are you like this all the time?”

 

“Oh yeah, all the time.”

 

Phil gave him that little him that all new teachers did when someone tried to explain that yes, this was Stiles’ default setting and the teachers thought it was an exaggeration. Phil would learn though, they always did. “My purpose is to guard the cards and make sure they only end up in the hands of the worthy.”

 

“That sounds boring.”

 

Phil’s fur prickled. “I do not get bored. It is my honor and privilege to guard the Argent cards and to train their carriers.”

 

Stiles wanted to call bullshit. His dad thought being a Sheriff was a higher calling too, but that didn’t mean he loved it all the time. The actual sheriffing was fun, but the paperwork was awful. There was no way that Phil adored every minute of sitting inside that book, especially since it seemed like the cards didn’t talk to him enough for him to know they were going rogue. But despite Phil’s fluffy appearance, Stiles was pretty sure that if he pushed, Phil would claw his eyes out. Instead, he moved on. “So what happened a hundred years ago?”

 

“Julienne Argent was a good cardcarrier, and with the authority of that position she moved the family’s base from France to the United States. An extra dose of my presence was necessary.”

 

Phil just let the silence hang there, and Stiles leaned halfway out of his chair waiting for the cat to actually explain why. “No wonder you and Deaton are buddies,” Stiles grumbled. The cat and the vet had vague mysticism down to an art form. “I can fake an emergency animal call tomorrow morning before Deaton goes in to the office. Even if he goes in, he won’t have time to worry about the book being missing—if you’re even right about him being able to tell that the book is gone. I’ll drop by to see Scott, stick the book back on the shelf, and you and I can pretend this whole thing never happened.”

 

“As happy as that would make me, we’ve passed that point.”

 

“Why?” Stiles whined.

 

“Because if the cards were unwilling to listen to me and stay in the first place, what on earth makes you think I’ll be able to bring them back in?”

 

“Because it’s your mystical job, isn’t it?”

 

“Do I have to give you the speech about the cards going rogue, again?”

 

“If you can’t tell the cards to come back, then what in the hell are we supposed to do?” Phil opened his mouth to snap something back, then just… stopped. And really, Stiles was starting to get irritated by that. “What? Am I going to drop you and the book off on Deaton’s doorstep? Are you going to roam outside and get saved from hoodlums by Sailor Moon? Are you going to turn into Super Kitty and wrangle the cards yourself? What?”

 

“There is virtually nothing about that sentence that makes anything resembling sense to me. But honestly, I’m not entirely sure what to do next.”

 

“Another thing the guy who made the cards didn’t plan for?”

 

“Of course. Though I was thinking more along the lines that I shouldn’t have have left the office with you. I should’ve stayed there and waited for Deaton, or for and Argent to feel the shifts in their family magic and come to make sure the codex was alright.”

 

“Hey, man. It’s not like a catnapped you. You got in the bag willingly.”

 

Phil bushed off his concern with a flick of his tail. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m simply saying it’s odd.”

 

“And how is this oddness going to affect me?”

 

“I would like to say not at all, but by this point you should be able to tell that I have no idea what’s going on here.”

 

“That’s not a all comforting.”

 

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thoughts on what the [Argent Cards](http://sunryder.tumblr.com/post/113371381229/art-for-stiles-and-the-mysterious-magic-book-a) look like over on my tumblr.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles had left his house that morning to the sight of his dad and Phil staring at one another across the kitchen table. Phil refused to demean himself by eating on the floor, and his Dad couldn’t quite wrap his head around the idea that after the seven powerpoint presentations that Stiles had crafted over the years to convince his dad to let him get a dog, Stiles had actually defied the no pet rule to bring home a cat.

 

His dad had stumbled in that morning after his overnight shift and found Stiles ranting that, no, he didn’t care that Phil didn’t like turkey bacon. If he wanted to complain about the free food he was being offered then Phil could go get his own breakfast.

 

“Stiles, what are you doing?”

 

Stiles jumped, and though he absolutely did not squeak, he may have reflexively squeezed the cereal box and shot Cheerios all over the floor. “Uh… getting breakfast? What are you doing?” The Sheriff just handed Stiles the broom and went for the turkey bacon that he was now apparently sharing with a cat. And damn if the little furry bastard didn’t look like he was laughing.

 

Stiles was a little twitchy when he asked his dad about his shift, nervous that the cards might have gone on a rampage while he was sleeping. But other than a few strange noise complaints—“It sounded like some idiot was out in the preserve practicing their trumpet”—the night had been filled with paperwork.

 

Everything was going to be fine, right up until Stiles noticed that while his father was enjoying his turkey bacon, Phil had a piece hanging halfway out of his mouth. And not because he couldn’t abide the taste. There was something about his dad that had Phil stunned, and Stiles did not have time to deal with this shit. He snagged his own piece of bacon, patted his dad on the back, scratched Phil behind the ears, and burst out the front door before anything in his life could get any more odd.

 

Which, of course, was how he found himself snatched from the hallway by Cora Hale five minutes into lunch. Because when your life had taken a turn for the magical cards and talking cats, you really should never think that was as far as it could go. Cora grabbed the scruff of his hair and wrenched his head back, so she could drag her nose up the exposed skin. “Uh, I’m pretty sure this was included in that video we had to watch in health class about inappropriate touching.”

 

Apparently talking was the signal that Stiles needed to get slammed against the locker for extra emphasis. “What the fuck did you do, Stilinski?”

 

“I came to school! What are you doing?”

 

Cora slammed him again. “You smell like magic, Stilinski. And yesterday you smelled human.”

 

“First off, I’m just gonna say that someone _has_ to have taught you not to just go around telling people that they don’t smell human anymore, because that: 1) tells them that you are inhuman enough to smell shit like that, and 2) you go around smelling for shit like that, and 3) you did not take into account that I might have just been around someone with a non-human smell. And if no one has taught you that, you guys really need better protocols.”

 

Cora, in true Hale tradition, just slammed Stiles against the wall again. Which really, was not addressing any of the problems. Stiles had spent his night feeding Phil and grilling the cat about the accuracy of his magic-themed Google results. At this particular moment Stiles was thinking that it might’ve been better to ask the cat about the types of creatures he might be running into at school. Like what in the hell might decide to come up and _sniff_ at him.

 

Stiles should’ve known that something was up when Erica kept staring at him like he’d grown horns in first period. Erica and Cora were terrifying, gorgeous, violent women who were joined at the hip, so whatever one knew, the other knew seventeen seconds later. (Twelve seconds to hide the phone and five seconds to text.) Which meant that whatever creature Cora was that had her sniffing Stiles, Erica probably was too. And if Erica, that meant Boyd. And, oh shit, Isaac. That meddling little weasel that kept trying to steal Scott as his best friend was probably one too!

 

“What are you?” Cora growled.

 

“What are you?” Stiles snapped back.

 

“No, what in the hell are you two doing in the closet?” Finstock interrupted. And never before had Stiles been so grateful to see him. Cora stepped back, trying and failing to look innocent, but coach’s eyes were all on Stiles. “Come on Stilinski, in the janitor’s closet? There are people walking by out here.” Stiles rolled his eyes, but really, he couldn’t blame coach for leaping to the dirtiest possible conclusion this time. And Stiles didn’t even bother trying to defend himself since gawkers spreading the word that Cora Hale was making a move on him could only enhance his reputation.

 

“Got it, coach!” Stiles shouted over his shoulder and just took off at a run.

 

The rest of the day was spent ducking and dodging around Cora’s usual band of friends. Wonderful, perfect, Scott made it halfway to teasing Stiles about the rumor he’d heard about him and Cora before he got a good look at Stiles’ expression and made himself a wall between Stiles and the others. (Danny may or may not have been roped in to helping Scott cause a distraction, but Stiles would totally pay him back the next time they were presentation partners.)

 

Scott ducked in to the jeep as Stiles was on his way out of the school’s parking lot, and didn’t say a word until Stiles had closed the front door of his house behind them. When Scott opened his mouth, Stiles raised a hand in the universal sign for, “Wait a minute”. Stiles grabbed a can of tuna from the cupboard and led a silent Scott upstairs. (Stiles had no doubt that Phil could take care of himself, but opposable thumbs tended to make things easier.)

 

They walked in to find Phil stretched out in a patch of sunlight on Stiles’ bedspread. Stiles was tempted to laugh about his quick adjustment to cat-like behavior, but if he had spent the last decade confined to a book with a bunch of nature spirits that hated him, he’d bask a little too. Phil gave both of the humans that disinterested but actually totally interested side-eye that cats were so great at giving and stuck to his façade when Scott asked, “Stiles? When did you get a cat?”

 

“So, uh…” Stiles took a moment to drop his backpack and regret that he didn’t bring a can opener with him. “Scott, this is Phil. Phil, this is Scott. Phil is a magical talking cat, and since Scott is my best friend and spent the day keeping Cora Hale from sniffing my face off, I recognize and accept that I should’ve told him about you yesterday when I found you.”

 

Scott’s own exclamation of, “Talking cat?” was totally drowned out by Phil’s “Hale?”

 

Stiles took thirty seconds to bring Scott up to date, from Deaton’s secret office, (“No wonder he texted me to come in this afternoon”), to the accidental windstorm (“So they just took off through the ceiling?”), to Phil (“Nice to meet you”), to magical cards that they didn’t know quite what to do about (“You’re just waiting around for something to happen? That doesn’t sound like you”), to the Hales, who according to Phil were one of the smaller, but oldest and strongest of the Werewolf bloodlines roaming around the Western United States.

 

“So, Cora figuring out that I accidentally unleashed magical cards created to destroy her species would be bad?”

 

Phil smushed his face into the quilt, like he couldn’t bear the thought of looking at Stiles and his stupidity. “The cards are there to _protect_ people from creatures that kill humans, not to kill the creatures willy nilly.”

 

“Dude,” Stiles snorted. “Willy nilly?”

 

“I will scratch your face off, Stiles. Just see if I don’t.”

 

Scott interrupted what was sure to be a spectacular sarcasm battle. “Wait, so the Hales are Werewolves. Which means their friends are probably either Werewolves or in on the secret, right?”

 

“Yup. And doesn’t that just explain so much about Erica?”

 

“Yes actually, but I was more trying to figure out how Deaton could have your Werewolf-killing book when he’s such good friends with Mrs. Hale.”

 

“Friends?”

 

“Friends might be stretching it, but she comes in without a pet and talks to him a lot of the time.”

 

The boys twisted to look at Phil, who was still from his whiskers all the way down to the tip of his tail. The cat was silently refusing to respond to their questions, but Stiles wasn’t the Sheriff’s son for nothing. The ability to look at a bunch of disjointed pieces and make the intuitive leap that put them together was a genetic trait. “Holy shit, the last cardcarrier tried to kill the Hales.”

 

Phil at least had the common sense not to deny it, though he didn’t confirm it either. Alright, if Phil was going to pull a Sheriff, Stiles would treat him like one. His dad usually accepted that there was no point in keeping things from Stiles when he knew everything already. “You said that Deaton is like the human version of you, and you’re not loyal to the Argents, you’re loyal to the cards, and to the cause they’re supposed to be carrying out. Deaton was even the one who got told about the fire and told it to you in a way that made the cardcarrier look like shit. You’re not neutral, but you’re far enough in the middle that you can call them on their shit. Far enough in the middle that the head of the local Werewolf family feels comfortable talking to Deaton despite his time with the Argents. I’m thinking there’s not a whole lot of reasons that the local Wolves would _want_ to deal with him, but there is a reason that they’d want to do it anyway. Deaton’s neutral enough to keep the Wolves updated, but still aligned enough away that Mrs. Hale doesn’t come around all the time. There has to be a reason that she keeps doing it whether she wants to or not. Keeping up on the psychopath who tried to murder her whole family sounds like a good reason.”

 

Scott nodded along, because Stiles’ logic leaps were always right, even when he had no idea what in the world Stiles was talking about. Phil though, Phil was watching Stiles like he’d just done something particularly interesting. “What? I’m not wrong.”

 

“No, I will admit that you are not. However, while I do not believe the Hales will have changed so much as to punish you for something you had nothing to do with.”

 

“I don’t know man,” Scott said. “Cora and her friends were hunting him pretty hard.”

 

“They weren’t hunting him because of the cards, they were hunting him because he suddenly started to smell like magic. I assume that this Cora will go home and tell her alpha about Stiles. Someone with more experience will be able to smell Stiles and tell her that it is not Stiles himself who has gained magical powers, but that he has been around something magical.”

 

“And by that point the cards will already be back with an Argent and Deaton can tell her it has nothing to do with me, right?”

 

Whatever Phil might have said about Stiles’ life plans was cut off by the ringtone he had specially reserved for the Sheriff. Stiles managed to get out, “Hey daddio,” before Phil clawed him in the thigh. Stiles squawked and dropped the phone, leaving Phil to reach out and paw on the speakerphone.

 

“Stiles? You ok?”

 

Stiles glowered at the cat, but self-preservation told him to leave the phone right where it was. “Sorry, dad. Dropped my phone. What’s up?”

 

And it was depressing that Stiles’ flailing was so common that his dad wasn’t even a little surprised. “I’ll be home late tonight. Whoever is out in the preserve with their trumpet hasn’t stopped all day and even the more mellow nearby residents are starting to get irritated.”

 

“You can’t track down someone who’s constantly blowing a horn?”

 

“Whoever this is they’re managing to avoid me, my deputies, and about half of the residents who live along the preserve, most of whom are experienced hunters. Last night I thought that maybe it was someone calling for help, but at this point I’m pretty sure it’s just someone being an ass.”

 

Stiles’ dad paused to let the deep bellow of the instrument echo down the phone line. Stiles didn’t need to be there to feel how the sound shuddered through his bones, wrapping him in the call of something deep and wild. Stiles looked up and met Phil’s far too knowing gaze. He was vaguely aware of his father saying his goodbyes, but Stiles was trying really hard to ignore his common sense.

 

“That didn’t sound like a trumpet.” Scott interjected.

 

“That’s a horn.” Stiles added.

 

“That’s The Hunt.” Phil explained.


	4. Chapter 4

"I would like to point out that this is the _worst_ idea we've ever had."

 

"Worse than the time we tried to run away from home in your dad's cruiser because we thought no one would stop us if they thought we were just really young deputies?"

 

"Hey, that was a solid plan. And we definitely would've made it off the street if one of use had been tall enough to reach the peddles. But no, Scottie. This is worse."

 

"Worse than the time we tried to break on to the hospital's roof so we could see the helicopter landing pad?"

 

"Hey, we were just exposing some flaws in the hospital's security system. And again, this is worse." Scott opened his mouth to ramble off another of the low points in The Continuing Adventures of Stiles&Scott, but Stiles interrupted him. "Let me stop you there. No matter what you say, none of my terrible ideas thus far have involved magic."

 

"Didn't we find a spell on the Internet to swap blood and make us actually brothers?"

 

"Not the point!" Stiles threw his hands in the air. "This is actual magic, and it's actually a threat to our lives!"

 

"I feel like sneaking into the woods is something you would normally want to do."

 

"When I'm satisfying my own curiosity maybe, but not for this bullshit about the greater good! These are the Argent's cards and an Argent can track them down while we are safe at home."

 

Scott's smile was painfully fond. "You're such a Slytherin."

 

"And don't you forget it my little Gryffindor. Now, can we go back to the house and play video games?"

 

Phil had impressed upon Scott how important it was that they collect the Hunt card before anyone else could get their hands on it, or before the Hunt called the other cards to it and they started to wreak havoc. Stiles had absolutely refused to have a thing to do with it, but when Scott with his puppy eyes said Stiles could come with them to save the day or Scott would walk, Stiles had caved. But that didn't mean he had to cave gracefully. So despite Stiles' consistent protests, the three of them were traipsing through the steadily darkening woods. Phil had taken up residence on Scott's shoulder, guiding them along with his own innate sense of the cards while Stiles all but dragged his heels and crosse through the dirt. (Halfway out the door Phil had given Stiles' lacrosse stick a significant glance and told Stiles he was going to need it. Which was not at all comforting.)

 

Phil had been diligently ignoring Stiles pretty much since they got back in the jeep -- his patience had been accumulated over hundreds of years trapped in a book, but eventually it would collapse in the face of Stiles' persistence, it always did. Phil looked about two comments away from sending Stiles back to his jeep with a disdainful flick of his tail, when instead the cat went still. Scott flinched when Phil dug his claws into Scott's shoulder. Stiles tightened his grip on the crosse just as the horn sounded again.

 

They'd heard it a few times since entering the woods, but nothing like almighty roar that currently shook the ground beneath their feet. The branches above them cracked and trembled and both boys nearly lost their footing. The call trailed off into an echo that surrounded them before slipping away into silence. "Uh, that seems like it was worse than before." Scott pointed out.

 

"The Hunt is getting irritated."

 

"By what?" Stiles demanded. "How is the Hunt pissed that its getting hunted?"

 

"It is meant to be the hunter not the hunted."

 

"Well, no one seems to be doing a particularly good job at the hunting." Scott pointed out, like his own optimism would somehow reach the card and calm it down.

 

"I imagine that this last outburst is because someone was getting close."

 

"If the card gets pissed about more people hunting it, why don't we just get out of the forest and let the people about to catch the card take care of it and its tantrums? Like I've been saying all along."

 

Phil fixed Stiles with a glower so fierce that he actually hoped never to see Phil in his real form so that the full brunt of it would never get turned on him. "You like to cause havoc."

 

"No I--"

 

"You really do, dude."

 

Stiles scoffed. "Like you're not right there with me."

 

Phil's little roar interrupted them before they could get any further. "Tell me how you felt when you got caught running away in your father's cruiser by the nosey old woman across the street."

 

"Mad, of course."

 

"But the anger was worse because it was her than it would have been if you'd been caught even a street over by one of the deputies, yes?"

 

"Well, yeah." Stiles shrugged. "Mrs. Havisham is the worst."

 

"Then imagine how irritated the Hunt will be when it gets ensnared by some magic wielder that it deems unworthy?"

 

Scott flinched. "I'm guessing more earthquake-like sounds?"

 

"I've seen the Hunt's call be used to rupture the eardrums of those it hunted so that their blood would fall to the earth and make them easier to track."

 

Scott and Stiles just stared at the deceptively sweet kitten. "You guys are deeply and profoundly messed up." Phil managed to shrug with his tail since he really couldn't object to that assessment. If the Argent's cardcarriers tended to be a little less psychopathic then they wouldn't be out here trying to track down a runaway card. "You think the card is going to just come quietly when it sees you because you're worthy?"

 

"No, I think the Hunt will let the boy who bears the Wind near enough to at least _try_ and catch it."

 

"First off, there has got to be a less embarrassing name to call that card. Second, what are you talking about? I don't 'bear' the card. I flailed and it landed in my hand."

 

“If the card didn’t want you to capture it, it wouldn’t have been captured.”

 

“Phil, buddy, I’m pretty sure that we can safely say that whatever it is you _thought_ you knew about the cards, it doesn’t really apply anymore.”

 

“Just summon the card,” Phil groaned. And hey, he was not Stiles’ dad, he didn’t get to sound so pained at Stiles’ very existence.

 

Stiles scoffed, but Scott was nodding along like it was the best idea he’d ever heard. Stiles wanted to question Scott’s judgment, but he was Stiles’ best friend, so impaired judgment was kind of assumed at this point. Stiles pulled the Wind card out of his pocket, ignoring the rational part of his brain that pointed out that the card probably shouldn’t have fit, and should have fallen out at some point. Stiles had skimmed the hollowed-out codex with Google translate at his side, but nowhere had the notes mentioned how you were supposed to summon a card. Stiles grit his teeth at the absurdity of it all and finally just grumbled, "Come forth!" If Stiles had spent ten years planning it, he could not have managed to produce a more sarcastic tone. Only, as Stiles would learn soon enough, there were certain kinds of magic that you didn't have to believe in so long as the magic believed in you.

 

Despite his tone and the utter lack of intent, Windy accepted Stiles' call.

 

With a whipping breeze she burst out of the card, gusts so strong that Stiles could practically see them streaking through the air. She settled in to a human shape, a woman more stately and prettier than the card's image had given her credit for. She was so pale that Stiles felt tan in comparison. She had long hair that began grey and faded to an invisible white as is floated around her head in a constant tussling breeze. Her wings were crystalline, a steady silver shimmer glinting red in the fading light. The dirt and leaves churned around her hovering feet, the base of a tornado ready to unleash.

 

And all Stiles could think to say was, "Uh, hey."

 

(He didn't need to look to know Phil had face-pawed.)

 

The corner of her mouth quirked up for the space of a blink, and Stiles relaxed. It was a knowing smile, but a good one. Not the one Deaton pulled out when he was being a smug know-it-all, but the kind that the deputies used when they found Stiles charming against their will. He could work with that.

 

"So, I'm gonna guess that since you've been around for all Phil's lectures that you know what's up?"

 

She gave him a demure little half-nod.

 

"Awesome. We were wondering if you could help us with that?"

 

"Stiles." And really, Stiles did not think the situation called for that level of exasperation. "You have to tell her what to do."

 

"And what exactly am I supposed to tell her here, Phil?"

 

"The Hunt is grouped under the Wind so she has control over him."

 

"What does that even mean? Am I just supposed to ask her, 'Hey Wind, your friend Hunt is about to start deafening people, us and my dad probably included. Can you help us out and tell us where he is?"

 

Again, sarcasm was turning out to not be a defense against magic. Wind pulled her wings and her breeze tight around her and took off to their right. (Which, irritatingly enough, had been the direction Phil was leading them.) Stiles had half a beat to just stare at her form disappearing through the trees before Phil shouted, "Follow her!" and they were off.

 

Wind didn't exactly pick the easiest of routes through the forest, but thankfully they managed to avoid any major hills or rocky outcroppings. Around the fourth tree that Stiles ran smack straight into, he figured there had to be a way to tell the Wind that running headlong was really not his and Scott's forte. They were much better at supportive cheering and benchwarming, so if Wind could pack up the Hunt and bring him to them where they sat, he would really appreciate it. Of course, to tell Wind about the change in plans, he would have to actually catch up to her first. And, you know, catch his breath once he got there.

 

Wind stopped her run sooner rather than later at the top of a small rise. They were just high enough up to be out of the clear sight of the three people they could see below converging on floating horn that Stiles could only imagine was the physical representation of the Hunt. There was a red-headed woman and a blond man with their backs to their little group, but there was a girl his own age that just had to glance a hair up from her target to see them all standing there.

 

Stiles dropped to the dirt, and thankfully Scott's lungs had him and the cat on his shoulder down before he thought twice about it. Wind though, Wind just hovered there staring at the hunters converging on her fellow card. Stiles reached up and grabbed Wind by the hand and yanked her down with the rest of them. "We don't want them coming after you too," he hissed. Wind's eyes widened in what, for her, was a full body gasp, but Stiles missed the display since the Hunt chose that moment to blow like he'd never blown before.

 

Stiles and Scott flinched away from the noise, while Wind just remained impassive, staring at Stiles like this was exactly what he deserved for getting her anywhere near the dirt -- in his defense, she was still floating with her front a few inches away from the actual ground. Stiles glanced over the rise and found the two adult hunters still making their way towards the horn. The force of the noise had driven back the girl several feet, while the man and woman had dropped their weight to displace some of the impact. The man seemed stuck right where he was, but the woman was gouging her knives into the earth and pulling herself forward like she was climbing a rock wall.

 

Stiles ducked back into hiding and pressed his lips close to Wind's ear to make himself heard, getting a mouthful of hair for his trouble. "Can you push them back?"

 

Wind didn't so much answer as she just dissolved into nothing. But since the hunters below them started to fall back, Stiles assumed she was on it. Wind pushed them out of the glade and out of sight, leaving Stiles to stumble his way down the hill and let gravity carry him against the wall of sound still coming from the horn. Stiles had never been musically inclined beyond what he could crank up as background noise while he researched, but even he could feel that the closer he got, the more his ears started to ring. And judging by the way Scott's hands flew up to cover his ears, it wasn't a proximity thing.

 

"We have to make him stop!" Stiles tried to shout, but his words got caught up in the roar. Either through magic or card hierarchy, the Wind still heard him call. She appeared before him, impassive as ever as Stiles puffed out his cheeks like he was about to blow into an invisible horn of his own, then slapped his hands over his mouth to cut off the exhale. Windy just hovered there staring at him, so Stiles shifted up his pointer finger and thumb to pinch shut his nose, trying to get the message across.

 

Windy quirked one pencil-thin eyebrow, but since she moved, Stiles assumed she got what he was going for. Like with the hunters, she cast aside the need for a body and dissolved into pure wind, wrapping around the horn again and again until it was enclosed in a bubble of air. Stiles could see the ribbon-like lines where she overlaid, binding him away without the air he needed to blow. The sound cut out quickly with nothing to fuel it.

 

"The staff, Stiles!" Phil called out.

 

Nothing about his lacrosse stick was suited for shutting up a magical card, but Stiles did the one thing he always wanted to do at practice when Jackson wouldn't shut up: he swung.

 

If he'd stopped to think about it, like, at all, Stiles would've been worried that putting something through the wind keeping the horn silent would be a terrible idea, and that the horn wouldn't actually fit in his net, and that the horn probably wasn't actually corporeal since it was just the manifestation of an idea. But, as it turned out, logic didn't really seem to apply when you were dealing with magic. Because Stiles swung his crosse, and when the net hit the horn, it erupted in one sweet, consuming note.

 

By the time Stiles finished his swing, there was a card nestled in the strings of his net.

 

The new card was the same design as the Wind, but along with a new title declaring it The Hunt, the image had been replaced by the gracefully curved lines of the horn that had just been blaring at Stiles.

 

"See,” Phil sighed. “It wasn't that bad."

 

Stiles stopped pretending and just dropped to the ground, groaning, "You are _the worst._ "


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you really upset about the chapter count, I’ve decided to do this story in a more episodic format. A couple chapters for each story, each story like it’s own episode (or maybe episode arc depending upon how things shake out), but still cut up into smaller chunks rather than one massive fic. That way you can get more regular posting rather than the nonsense I’ve been doing.

Phil waited to sneak out until the boys collapsed in a heap of exhaustion and spent adrenaline. Stiles had tucked his two cards away in the pages of the codex and flat out refused to discuss the matter. Of course, that refusal lasted just long enough for him to get halfway through pulling out the game console before he chucked the pile of games down to the bed and shouted, “What in the hell kind of arrangement is this, man?”

And so the night went. Stiles would rant, Scott would nod along with supportive murmurs (finishing whatever task Stiles had stopped midway to declare his dissatisfaction with the world), and then Stiles would catch himself actually acknowledging the situation only to throw his hands up and shout, “But I’m not talking about it!” Given the rush of the day (and that Scott kept stealing Stiles’ Adderall bottle before he could down another dose), both of the boys collapsed laughably early for a Friday night. 

Phil nosed off the console and the television, utilizing pathetically tiny fangs to cover them with Stiles’ blankets and leave them in some kind of comfort. With his charges tucked safely away in bed like kittens themselves, Phil eased open the window and slipped out into the night. Phil kept a wary eye out for the details of the neighborhood, both out of habit, and in case Stiles woke while Phil was out and wanted to know where he’d been. (Phil suspected that trying to lie to Stiles would be like trying to lie to a seer: if you wanted it to work, you needed to make the lie as close to reality as possible.)

His currently little body moved with the unnatural speed that came from having access to Wind’s magic, though it was the added influence of Hunt that called him to the woods. From there it was easy. He had spent centuries knowing the polar opposite of his own magic, so feeling his other calling to him made winding through the trees towards his goal an easy task. It certainly helped matters that Erebus had chosen to lurk in a clearing near the forest’s edge rather than some place deep in its heart. (Not that Erebus needed to be in particularly deep to find a circle of moonlight spilling unfiltered through the trees to stand in and look hauntingly beautiful. But Erebus did tend to prefer the extra drama that came from such a location.)

Phil took a moment to appreciate the aesthetics that came with the moon highlighting Erebus like a fallen star, his latest form’s black hair almost glowing blue like embers from the light. As always, Phil shook off the beauty that came part and parcel with Erebus’ hosts and strolled in to the clearing to tease him about sticking to type, but then the wind shifted.

The wind shifted and Phil stopped dead in his tracks.

“Have you lost your mind?” Phil snapped. Erebus turned to face him head on, and Phil didn’t need his host’s eyes to flash red for Phil to know what he’d done. “A Wolf? You took a wolf as your host? What were you thinking! Have you and the cards just decided to run wild? A Wolf! And unless the family has gone through a dramatic physical shift in the last ten years, a Hale!” 

Phil would’ve kept ranting, but that was hard to do while Erebus laughed at him. (It had always been difficult, not just because Erebus’ current host had such a lovely face.) “Stop it! This is serious!”

“I know, Phaedrus. In truth, I think I know even better than you.”

“Obviously not, since I’m not the one who ran off with the cards and decided to take up residence in a Wolf!”

Erebus was supposed to scoff at him for worrying far too much. That was the way their conversations always went and Phil was ready to take some measure of comfort that, despite everything else that had gone wrong in the last 48 hours, at least that was still the same. 

Only, it wasn’t. 

Erebus didn’t roll his eyes, he didn’t laugh, he didn’t even sigh. He just quirked one thick eyebrow and silently waited for Phaedrus to catch up to what he and the cards had known all along.

Phil’s knees gave out underneath him and he dropped to the forest floor in shock. “You’ve been in there the whole time.” Rather than answer, Erebus scooped Phil and ran a soothing hand down his fur. “You didn’t come back with the rest us to the codex after the fire.” 

Erebus paused in his petting rather than scritch Phil behind the ears in congratulations. Phil pressed his paws to Erebus’ chest so he could look him clear in the eyes. “You have not been in this boy the entire time you’ve been gone. You have not.”

“No.”

“Oh thank—”

“It’s been longer than that.”

Phil smushed his face into Erebus’ chest like he could smother himself before he had to deal with another moment of this nonsense. 

Erebus wasn’t tied to the codex and the Argent line like Phil and the cards were. They were supposed to be of use to the cardcarriers, and wait patiently for the next one when they were in between. But Erebus was the failsafe. He spent time with the cards, and time out in the wider world of magic, all to keep an eye on the Argents while they were away from the codex’s hearing range. It was Phil’s job to ensure that the mission was carried out, and it was Erebus’ job to make sure that the thing actually being carried out was the mission. Phil trained the cardcarriers, and Erebus declared them abominations unworthy of the cards’ magic. 

For Erebus to have spent years investigating non-Argent options for cardcarriers was terrifying in a wholly more upsetting way than him simply being in a foul enough mood to take a Wolf as a host. He was only supposed to choose a host after the cards had chosen a new carrier, someone close enough to the carrier that he could properly judge their fitness for the gift the cards had chosen to bestow on them. 

“How long?”

“Since Gerard had Kate unofficially declared the next cardcarrier before she’d ever been in the same room as the codex.” 

“He what?” Phil startled so hard it was only Erebus’ large hands that kept him from testing out his form’s reputed reflexes. 

“I eavesdropped on one of the family meetings. He was certain that she would be perfect for the task.”

“Fathers usually feel that way about their daughters.” Phil tried to defend. 

“I could feel the magic on Gerard when he said it, Phaedrus.”

“What—”

“Ritual.” 

And oh, Phil didn’t think his cat stomach could turn quite so nauseous. Phil had shuddered at the feel of Gerard since he’d been a teenager skulking around outside the codex’s safe room (honestly, Phil was quite certain that Gerard’s disturbing interest had been what made Deaton’s predecessor move the codex to his own office). The thought of Gerard employing ritual magic to make his own child compatible with the codex shouldn’t have surprised Phil, but it did. Changing your own magical profile usually took years of diligent practice in a new preferred magical area, the kind of focus and training that children were incapable of carrying out. To change Kate’s profile to match the cards would require taking someone else’s magical profile and grafting the relevant portions on to her own. 

Which meant murder.

It meant tying a still-breathing victim down a ritual altar and draining them of the life force magic that they needed, then mixing the victim’s still-steaming blood into a potion and giving it to Kate to drink. 

Phil shouldn’t have been surprised, but the depths of human depravity still stunned him.

“The taint of the ritual magic surged when Gerard remembered what he’d done. He didn’t discuss it in the meeting, of course, but that stain will never be washed away. I walked away from the Argents that day and haven’t looked back since.”

“But to a Hale?” Phil tried not to whine, but it was hard to avoid it as his world crumbled around him.

“I go where my magic leads me, and given Kate’s actions you cannot fault its choice.”

“You were in the boy even then?”

“Why did you think the cards got so very, very angry about the arson attempt?” And several horrible things just made a lot more sense. Just as the Hunt was categorized under Wind and would listen to its instructions, so did Wind and the other element cards listen more to Phaedrus and his light, or Erebus and his dark. While Wind listened Phil, Fire was utterly devoted to Erebus. Fire had not simply refused to burn down the Hale house, but he’d captured his own carrier and waited for the Wolves to dispense justice. Phil had scolded Fire for his overzealous response, but now that he knew Kate had been about to kill Erebus, Phil would have to apologize to Fire and applaud him for his restraint. 

“So do you plan for this break with the Argents to be permanent? Or just until Gerard no longer has a say in things?”

Erebus just shrugged, which would have been more irritating if he hadn’t also been petting Phil. “I’m not the one with the plan, here. You and I have spent the last 400 years choosing and casting off the cardcarriers, and our success rate has been abysmal. After Kate, I thought it was high time we let the cards do the choosing.”

“You mean to tell me that out of the whole world, the cards decided that Stiles was the one they wanted to lure in?” Phil groaned.

Erebus poked him in the belly. “Don’t pretend you don’t adore him. I watched you with him while he captured Hunt and I haven’t seen you snark with a human like that since Edmond.”

Phil puffed up in affront and shimmied out of Erebus’ arms. “If you’re going to be insulting then there’s no point in talking to you.” 

Erebus bit his lip to keep from telling Phil that being a little, fluffy cat suited him perfectly. But he valued his skin without claw punctures in it, so he kept that thought to himself. Phil managed to sense it though. He stuck his tail up and sauntered away in the perfect picture of feline affront. “On, don’t be like that, Phaedrus. Just think about how much fun we’ll have.”


End file.
